Mourning Poem

poetry

death makes me want to shut down, shut up, shut in and be a child again;
one who doesn’t understand what it meant when grandpa P passed
and mom and dad said he’s in heaven,
one who got excited for him and hoped he’d write a letter and tell me what heaven is like
and for a few weeks whenever we would be in the car I looked at the clouds
hoping I would catch him peeking over and wave to him.
all I want is to be that same child
pulling out plastic figurines and directing toy battles on the carpet with my brother
with an evil boss and his entourage of saber-toothed tigers running and leaping on the hero and his knights and army men.
and even though many of them fall, in the very last moment the good guys win the fight,
killing the boss and his dinosaur minions… and yet, they were never really dead.
as soon as they went into the Tupperware container and the lid snapped shut and opened again, everything was as it should be,
because everyone died, but everyone came to life again to play their timeless part
and even the bad guys got a break…but it’s not like that, and people stay dead
the good and the bad die, the heroes get old and have strokes, and the villains get pneumonia
and I miss them both because the bad never got to know what it felt like to be good, to be loved, to be the hero, to be in heaven.
and I miss the good, because they were good, and it’s selfish and I don’t care because I wish they were here until we could all go together.
but that’s not how it works and grandpa P isn’t in the clouds and I’m never going to see some of those people again.
and I want to cry, but I don’t,
I stare vacantly remembering and wishing I was a kid again;
where none of this mattered, where none of it hurt,
where people like Florence get healed of her breast cancer and where husbands like Danny still got to still sleep next to her at night and hope for the future where somehow they could still be together
and not have to bury his wife
and I tell my own wife “it’s times like these that people get angry at God, when instead they should be running to him,”
and as I say it, I feel myself getting angry.

emotional capacity of a potato

poetry

there are times and places
and people and things,
but this is none of those
and i find it highly suspect
that you’re still trying
to stuff it in your pocket
when the jar, the bag, and
your heart, failed to hold
it. but the misunderstandings
you’re perpetuating make
me believe there is also
little reason in attempting
to explaining it to you.

poem for a chalk Robert Downey Jr.

poetry

it only took the artist
being gone for five minutes
for a woman to role her
metal cart over the realistic
chalk rendition of
Robert Downey Jr. on
the sidewalk outside
Union Square Park.

and worse

she did it with disdain!
she actually looked down,
saw the thing,
walked RIGHT over it,
and smirked at her petty
triumph. I wanted

to yank her back by the hair
and shove her nose in it,
like a dog that defecates
on your rug. “Bad
middle aged lady! No!
No ruining the pretty picture!”
I wanted to yell at her.

Or
to pay her in turn;
showing up at her work
(my guess in middle management)
and shuffling her papers,
unalphabetizing her rolodex
and removing paintings of
boats and pastoral scenes
from her walls.

all it would have taken
was a slight adjustment
of her trajectory, and
she would not have rubbed
all the yellows, and blues,
and reds together and
blown dust in everyone’s eyes.

And I was with
the artist, and I was her,
and I was everyone taking
the pictures, and I was the
quarters in the hat and we all
lamented the loss
of the beautiful chalk

Robert Downey Jr.

Belonging

poetry

fear
in the morning
at the drive through
when i plastered on a convincing smile
it loomed over my head
it came in
and i creaked like an old door

Still a kid
on the playground,
it approached me
surrounded all my toys
it took over my childhood
and made me lonely
wondering in a corner why
i couldn’t be bright and
carefree

always out of my element
awkward on my two feet, and when
i sat, i sat on the edge of a seat
almost falling down
i gnawed on my fingernails
till drops of blood came out

when i was alone,
i listened to the silence
it was overwhelmingly alive
full of secrets and countless
memories

i thought to myself,
out there, there is a kid
who hears silence scream
exactly like me
when night comes,
all the restless sounds
teem in darkness
bless that child
cover her/his ears till all
the fear washes away

some day, i believed,
i won’t mind the (memories of)
stomach aches or chest pains
but they lasted so long,
i couldn’t wait for it to make sense
i pushed myself out of the world,
i canceled everything out
floating above people, jobs, and countries  
the only way i knew that i still care was a
purposeless fear that stack to everything i
did

I’ve been absent for so long
i do not know how to walk with others
anymore, i’m not sure if I still can

and when i think of that child
i want to say

Me too
i have been there
though i’m still in that pit like world
i’m slowly making my way out
though i’m still leading a swing like
existence- going up and down –
back and forth
I’ve decided,
I won’t loathe my overly somethingness
i won’t run away anymore
i won’t avoid or wait
brick by brick, i will build
a house of confidence
I hope I can grab on light and not let go
I do not wish to lose to myself anymore

I want to say

Me too
i’m capable of warmth and love

time for a change

poetry

the first pulls out easy.
a blonde hair that had snuck
its way into my black, 
the opposing side’s rook, 
so opposite my ancestry of
dark haired, dark skinned 
obsidian. the second,
like the first, takes little 
effort to pry free of its
small plot on my chin.
soon, I am ripping away
chunks, three and then
eight at a time, of gnarled
weeds, taking the skin
with them.
                 It smarts. 
Each falls to the sink
and joins the other twisted,
coarse, dead stalks as
my chin begins to redden.
then, even a small dot of
blood starts the path past
my bottom lip, until a slow 
drip has grown. But I 
am too far along now for
fixing, and make the last
desperate yanks that will
free me of this face. 
And it stings, and the
smell is unbearable
as I light the small pile. 

but they look so pretty
burning up. 

the end is nigh

poetry

In between hideousness
slave to all those things that were
meant to free me
time went by quickly
nebulosa
my bright purplish conscience
tomorrow, i will win over the city
i will run all those red eyed gargoyles
out of the city

doors creek
locks weep
i will pinch their noses
and dry their tears
maybe it is a sign of
the familiar times
swarming through
but i hear the rattling sound
of metal cages
embalmed creatures
roaring
flying up to kiss
the hard belly of the monster

oh my nebulosa
screeching sounds
endless they come
from the tv, radio
pastors, furnice,
strangers on the street
and all the few people i know
call it life

nothing phases you either
you’re tightly tucked in
and i shiver like i used to
the sky is blue
trees are green
stop lights are red
and on the other side,
words seem so simple
and when lined right,
they say :

“you’ll be alright”
“I’m thinking of you”
“i Know”
“i’m sorry”
“you’re still growing”
“thank you for being here”
“farewell, I will miss you”

poetry

There is a place not far from here
where the wind whips fiercely and
the sand and dust flies in your faces
so that you can not even think to go
further

The water is cold on this ill-tempered
beach and the ships have all come in just
to stay alive amidst a red-flag warning
and water was boiling and everyone was
cold and alone and etc etc etc

so we walked streets that offered nothing
and we saw ships that we fancied all the same
for different reasons. We watched the ducks.
You shivered.

We came back, then, from that treacherous place
feeling glad to be alive even if we hadn’t got
our toes wet like we wanted to, and as far as
I could care those waters are still boiling
and everyone is cold and alone and etc etc etc

except for some of us

this is the poem I want to be remembered by

poetry

there’s lots of talk
of electric cars, of
moon bases and jet packs,
but no one ever mentions
what wigs will look like
in 100 years.

They will have to be different.

A scientist will find
a way to grow human hair
on a mouse’s back. or
an explorer
will discover a mysterious root
in the heart of Brazil, which,
when laid across a bald scalp,
will attach itself and grow
an afro-like moss.

or, in an act of rebellion
against a society
hell-bent on preserving
“morally righteous” haircuts,
teenagers, in 3013, will begin
to wear brightly colored
and oddly shaped wigs. But this
will become the norm. And so,
in increasing efforts of
out-cooling one another,
the wigs will have to grow
more elaborate, looking less and
less like human hair.

Hats will be obsolete.

Barbers
will go out of business.

The bald will rejoice!

It will no longer be strange
to look out the window
of your fourth floor apartment
and witness an ocean
of clashing colors and
Dali-esque hairpieces.

And I,

I will don
a ten-story tall wig.
Bright pink, with sections for children to
play in and a slide that goes
from the top to my feet.
I will be

cooler

than all
of you.

The Light has Returned (Sestina)

poetry

Beyond the pinpoint of midnight there is a light.
And within that dollop of a spark there is heat,
The flames jockeying for position on a red wick.
From a hand protrudes a slender white candle
That connects to the silhouetted body of a man
There, some unknown messenger of long lost hope.

Like Noah’s dove, he has returned holding hope.
Grasping securely onto the remains of a guiding light
Wax slides onto his fingers as he raises the bright candle,
Incandescence illuminates the hands of this man
Coalescing gently over his skin, it purges liquid heat.
A wavering glow, desperate sparks cling to the wick.

A filament pyre, colors of fire race through the wick,
Cycles of autumn re-imagine the vision of hope
And will long sought deliverance be found in this man?
Has he come that we may walk in his marvelous light?
We in darkness have dreamed of knowing heat,
But until now have had no way to light our candles.

A great and reviving jubilation exudes from the candle
An ever-changing aura of flames frolic on the wick.
The winter of darkness has been overcome by heat.
And with that warmth comes an even superior hope,
As our eyes swell with promise at this newfound light
And it draws deliberately nearer in the arms of this man.

But why would he be mindful of another man?
Who are we that he would care for our extinguished candles?
Why would he come to crown us in his light?
Yet he beckons, that we would come near to his wick.
He promises to generously share this flare of hope,
And we will be renewed by the heritage of its heat.

Carrying the fire, our own bodies will emanate his heat
Selflessly given to us by this figure much more than a man.
And from his coming, we will walk forward in hope,
Abiding in the sight afforded to us by his candle
With his offering we are captivated by the golden wick
That we may forever return with him to the city of lights.

With the consuming heat that radiates from this man
We have understood that he is our only hope and as his candle
Has lit our wicks to burning, he declares, “I am the light!”

of a summer

poetry

what a pleasurable sensation.
so sweet a trickle- my toes,
so sticky my shoes so soon
to follow. I stepped
on a peach.
Her warm rotted breast making
mess of my sandals, the
easiest route to then tickle-my-toes,
the lapping and pooling of both
as my heels then opened
their mouths, learning to taste
for the first time.
(and sticky all the way home.)

Titanium Justice

poetry

I remember a thunderstorm
in a field one summer and
the lighting was better than
every firework I’ve ever seen

Then four years went by
and you packed up to go
from one place to another
though you stopped here
for a moment,
at least

Then four years were
purely inconsequential
and everything was just
as it always was and
if the sky cracks any differently
in Texas I know at least
you’ll see it the same

And thank you, for it.

yup, much more awesome though different than we’re taught.

poetry

and one day while lying in bed
and reading a clive staples commentary
on third or fifth-rate poetry,
it occurs to me that i’ve never written
a love poem. as in a poem about genuine
love and not the mushy gushy feeling
of pursuit and excitement. of the chase
so fleeting, wonderful yes, but no more love than avacado is ice cream though it shares a consistency.

and now married 8 years to the horribly imperfect, i think myself prepared
for a love poem. about dishes, fights, diapers, and choices again and again to be better than i think she deserves because i know undoubtably she’s being better than she thinks i deserve.
for though she sometimes thinks knows me to be an ass
she delights in my imperfection and offers patience with my foolishness.
finding that, in a way, we live thrive together somehow stronger with the constant struggle of maintaining one another;
stronger than we would be void of one another.
the choice so easy when weighed with the alternative.
so often left unweighed.
because to love is the choice.
the choice is to love.